


Stains of Time

by escritoireazul



Category: Thunderheart (1992)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Racist Language, Yuletide 2014, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:12:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ray goes undercover, far too often, things go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



Ray wakes up to sunlight streaming in through the window and slanting across his eyes. He squints against it and tries to sit up; pain flares. Well, now, that was a hell of an idea. Just that tiny movement leaves him panting for breath, and it takes a long couple of seconds before he can take inventory of his injuries: cracked ribs, bruised throat, banged up head, and a long, shallow cut along the outside of his left arm that’s held together with butterfly closures.

Last thing he remembers is – is – oh, hell. Undercover, there was a bar, there was a fight. He didn’t start it, he wasn’t even in the middle of it, but here he is. Work shit isn’t supposed to turn out like this.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but damn, that’s a bad idea, it pulls on the head wound. His fingers drift up, skitter lightly over the bandage, learning its edges. There’s a couple of stitches in him, he thinks. At least a couple. 

His ribs are taped, too. Someone’s patched him up, left him alone, and he’s not tied up. That’s got to be a good sign, right?

He forces his eyes open, takes in the room. It’s cheery and warm, white and yellow patterned wallpaper, scrubbed wooden floors, woven rug in the center of the room that looks handmade. The bed frame is heavy wood, the mattress thick and soft, and a big quilt is folded at the foot. 

Ray squints up at the ceiling. There’s dark blotches in some places, the shadow of grease or glue. Glow-in-the-dark stars, maybe, stuck up in make-believe constellations. Ray never had anything like that, but he’s seen them around. They’re frivolous things, and they leave marks. No way he’d be allowed something like that.

He sighs, still no idea where he’s at, but the room is quiet, the sun is warm, and despite his best efforts, he drifts back to sleep.

*

There’s – there’s.

Ray dreams, and in his dreams, pieces of reality. He’s flirting, undercover, charming and gay. He’s a pretty boy, funny and friendly. He grins and toasts, doesn’t drink, makes it be a cute little quirk.

He jerks away, and something scores the line of his arm. It burns, and it bleeds.

_Think you can fuck our white boys?_

Fists and his face and his knuckles break open.

_Red nigger._

*

The sound of the door opening wakes him. He’s not sure what time it is exactly, but it’s been long enough since he first woke up that the sunlight no longer fills the across from the bed. It’s still daylight, but probably afternoon.

This time, Ray can sit up, as long as he’s careful, and slow. Good thing it’s Walter coming in, not a threat. Walter stands in the doorway, holding a mug of something that steams, and watches him a moment, eyes half shut, expression bland.

“Must’ve looked pretty bad, they called you in.” His throat loosens a little more with each word, but it still hurts, and his voice sounds scraped raw.

“Looked better,” Walter says, and finally comes all the way into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into him, and hands over the mug.

Ray takes a big sniff. Tea, herbs and honey. Maybe some medicine, too, he can’t tell.

The mug is warm against his fingers, but not too hot to drink, as long as he takes small sips, lets it settle on his tongue, slip down his throat. It’s not too sweet, but there’s enough honey to it that it feels nice, tastes good. Walter puts his hand on Ray’s thigh, near his knee. There’s a sheet and a blanket between their skin, but the weight of his touch comes through anyway, and Ray basks in it.

The silence that settles over them is comfortable. There’s an itch at the back of his mind, not knowing where he is, but he trusts Walter. He can wait. Walter rubs his leg lightly, absentmindedly. Probably he’s not even aware he’s doing it, unconscious comfort for them both. Ray drinks his tea, relaxes into the pillows supporting him.

Finally, Walter says, “Better check your wounds,” and hauls himself up off the bed with a sigh. Ray watches him as he gathers packages of sterile bandages and ointment, sets them on the bed, then goes to the attached bathroom to wash his hands. Ray slumps a little, soothed by the sound of running water. He’s spent many mornings like this, sleepy and sated in bed, listening while Walter hits the head, showers, brushes his teeth.

Walter down next to him again. “Arm,” he says, voice low, a little rough. Ray holds out his arm, lets his eyes drift closed as Walter checks the closures. “Swelling’s gone down. How’s it feel?”

Ray starts to shrug, then catches himself. “Better than my ribs,” he says, and that earns him a low chuckle, even though he’s not trying to be funny.

“Couple of boots to the chest’ll do that to you.” Walter traces the inside of Ray’s wrist, just enough pressure it falls in that space between ticklish annoyance and foreplay that makes his balls draw up tight and his dick twitch. He peeks at Walter through his eyelashes, and there’s just a hint of smug to his small smile. Yeah, that bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Dick,” Ray mutters. “Starting things you won’t finish.”

“Nah, my friend.” Walter does it again, and Ray shifts his weight. “Starting things you _can’t_ finish.” Ray fully opens his eyes and frowns, unsure whether he wants to glare or pout, settling for somewhere inbetween, failing at making any point. “Old Injun trick,” Walter adds, laughter running through his words, but expression completely serious. “Makes you heal faster.”

“Because my ribs are going to knit right back together so I can get my dick sucked,” Ray mutters, and tries to hide his smile. Walter’s grin widens, sure sign Ray failed.

“Something like that.” Walter releases his arm, reaches for his face. “Hold still. They did a number on your head.”

Walter’s talking around what really happened. Ray still hasn’t pieced it all together. Ray closes his eyes, lets himself drift a little. It’s okay not to know. It is. He might not trust the system much, or himself when he’s coming out of deep cover, but he sure as hell trusts Walter.

Changing that bandage takes time, and more than a little pain when some of his hair gets ripped out and when Walter puts some sort of astringent on the wound, makes it burn. Ray keeps his eyes closed, and focuses on Walter’s steady breathing. In, and out. In, and out. He matches his breath to Walter’s, gets so lost in that it takes him a minute to notice Walter’s done with the bandage, now just resting his hands on Ray, one on his shoulder, the other cupping his face.

Slowly, Ray opens his eyes. Walter’s watching him, eyes soft, expression fond. His thumb strokes along Ray’s jaw, his fingers press gently into Ray’s cheek.

“You did good,” he says, voice low. “You got your guy before things went to hell. You remember that, right?”

Ray doesn’t remember that, but it helps. Instead of answering, he reaches up, draws Walter closer, angles his face so they can kiss. It’s soft, careful, not at all what Ray wants, but it’s what his body can take, it’s what he needs, and for the moment, that’s enough.

When they’re done kissing, mouths warm and wet, Walter urges Ray to get some more rest, lies down with him, and Ray falls asleep holding his hand.


End file.
